Blue-grey and ominous,
the storm builds against a dusty August sunset,
scenting the heavy, heated air with a promise of water.
The dark wall of cloud,
full of rumblings and spitting fire, calls me outside,
out of the shuttered house and down the steps,
into the open and uncertain space that surges with energy.
Like a young girl I am seduced and out of my depth,
trembling with the hope of rain upon my face.
It is upon me in an instant,
churning air pouring down its silver flood,
washing over head, shoulders and hands,
over grass and stone and tree,
full of sound and blissfully cold;
fierce, lashing lines of rain beat upon me,
full of the same inexorable power
as fuels the wildness of the sea.
I do not move, though the air
sparks around my dripping self.
The power behind and within the rain,
the very heart and hand of God,
soaks and sooths me, holds me in its thrall,
breathes upon my breath an intimacy,
a knowing, that both terrifies and redeems.